


anything but another year in exile

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-25
Updated: 2011-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:29:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	anything but another year in exile

It was, apparently, going to rain all damn day.

Pete swung the stool slowly back and forth with sharp jerks of his hips, staring out the storefront at the rain. People hurried by with their heads down and hoods flipped up, not glancing left or right. Tattoo parlors didn't get a lot of spontaneous walk-in business anyway, but today there wasn't even a chance of people noting the place was there to come back to in the future.

He could probably just close up and go home and it wouldn't make a difference. Of course, then Jeff would kill him. Or fire him. And then he would either have to go back to college or move out of his parents' house, and if either of those things happened he would probably die anyway, so...

He swung the stool to the left again and watched a skinny kid climb off the bus. No jacket or hoodie, forget an umbrella, just a v-neck t-shirt that was almost instantly soaked through and clinging to his skin. He had a guitar case in one hand, the neck end wrapped in a plastic bag. Must be open mic night at one of the coffee shops around here, though the nearest one was two blocks away and why would he get off at this stop instead of a closer one?

The kid looked left and right and ran across the street, sending splashes halfway up the legs of his jeans. Pete reached under the counter and turned the space heater up a little higher, blasting hotter air on his own legs in sympathy. Poor dumb soaking-wet kid.

Dumb soaking-wet kid who was opening the door to the shop and splashing water all over his nice clean floor. "Hi," Pete said.

The kid pushed his hair--longish, floppy, dirt-brown--back off his forehead and squinted at Pete. "Hi."

"Can I help you with something?" No way was that kid old enough to get inked. He looked about fourteen.

"Just need a place to sit."

"This is a tattoo shop."

"I know." The kid nodded at the window, with its bright logo splashed across in reverse from this view. "I can read."

"It's not a public waiting area."

"There's nobody else here."

That was unfortunately true. Most of the clients were still Jeff or Carly's clients, and only bothered to come in when they knew someone other than the halfwit third man was working. "You're soaking wet."

"It's raining." The kid said it in a pissy, condescending tone, like there was a chance Pete really just hadn't noticed.

"What are you waiting _for_ , anyway? Your mommy to come pick you up to take you home for cookies and milk?"

The kid drew himself up to his full height--which was pretty tall, okay, but he was so fucking skinny it still looked ridiculous, like a bird trying to be intimidating. "I'm in a _band_. We rent one of the practice spaces at the end of the block."

That explained the guitar. "So why don't you wait there?"

His jaw twitched and his shoulders deflated a little. "I don't have the key."

"Really."

"It's...it's a long story, but Mike has the key and he won't...look, could I please just sit here? He'll be here soon. Half an hour tops."

Pete chewed at his lip for a moment, waiting to see if the kid would squirm. He didn't, but he did flush dark red, fingers tightening on the guitar case.

"Yeah, okay," Pete said finally. "Hang out. I'm not a total asshole."

The look on the kid's face said he thought that might be open to debate, but he nodded and sat down, holding the guitar across his knees. Water kept dripping down from his hair and clothes onto the floor, but the idea of going all the way to the back to the get the mop was bullshit, so Pete let it go.

He stared out the window until another bus went by, and then the silence was too much to take. "What's your name?"

"Bill. William." He shrugged, an awkward arch of a shoulder. "Whichever."

"I'm Pete."

"You work here? I mean, are you an artist? Or do you just work the desk?"

Pete shrugged and dug his thumbnail into the edge of the desk. He shouldn't be offended. This kid--Bill--he didn't fucking know. "I do tattoos. I don't really like the word artist."

"Why not?"

"I just don't."

They lapsed into silence again, Bill scuffing the heels of his shoes against the tile and Pete doodling on the notepad by the phone. He fucking hated working afternoons. Boring as shit.

After a while he saw a car pull up at the end of the street and discharge two guys with guitar cases. Bill stood up and pushed his hair off his forehead again, shooting Pete a half-smile. "Thanks."

"Yeah," Pete mumbled, drawing a lopsided dog. He didn't look up until the door banged closed again.

**

On Friday it rained again. Pete set up the trash can halfway between the desk and the window and practiced throwing small objects into it.

The 3:15 bus dropped off across the street and a minute later the door swung open and the kid stomped inside, wet and squishing and carrying his guitar.

"Bill," Pete said, throwing a pen. Too much topspin. He missed by a foot and a half.

"Pete." The kid shook his head like a dog and set the guitar down. "How's it going?"

"I'm a little over .500."

"That's a batting average. You're pitching. It's calculated differently."

"Blow me." He threw another pen and sighed, leaning the stool back on two legs. "Your friend still won't give you the keys?"

"He's not my friend at the moment," Bill muttered, digging around in his backpack.

"Just your...drummer?" Bill shot him a look and shook his head. Pete shrugged. "Usually it's the drummer."

"You say that like you're familiar with bands."

"Yeah." Pete shrugged again and Bill squinted at him, then turned to the backpack again. "Drummers are dicks."

"So are rhythm guitarists." Bill produced a slightly crushed Subway bag and took out a sandwich. He put it on the desk in front of Pete carefully, like he was placing a bomb, then retreated to the chair with the bag.

"What's this?"

"A sandwich. Oh. You mean what kind. Ham and Swiss on whole-wheat."

Pete hadn't meant what kind at all. "Why are you giving it to me?"

Bill shrugged and unwrapped his own sandwich. "Seemed like a nice thing to do. I'll keep it if you don't want it. Adam will probably eat it."

"Adam is..."

"Bassist."

"Got it." Pete unwrapped it and poked a little at the bread, watching Bill from the corner of his eye. "You are soaked all the way through, dude."

"I had to wait at my stop for like twenty minutes. It sucked."

"You don't have an umbrella?"

"It was clear this morning." Bill shrugged and took another bite. "My mistake."

"You look like a drowned kitten." Pete meant it as kind of a gentle joke, but apparently this kid made getting offended into a hobby. He sat up straight and glared, squaring his shoulders like he was going to go for a fight.

"I do _not_ ," he said in the most aggravated tone imaginable, which was so not the sharp comeback Pete was expecting that he sat there staring at him for a minute.

"Yes," he said finally, "you really kind of do."

Bill huffed and took another bite, glaring out the window at the rain-slick street. Pete shook his head, fighting back a smile and not really succeeding, and started eating as well. They passed the rest of the time in silence. This time when Bill stalked out into the street, he didn't say goodbye.

**

The next Wednesday, Pete saw Bill get off the 3:15 bus again. It was sunny, though, and this time he just glared at the store for a few minutes before walking up the street and sitting on the curb where his friends usually parked their car. As far as signals went, it wasn't exactly subtle. Pete rolled his eyes and drew a puffed-up, angry cat on his notepad, with big eyes and hair flopping down around its ears. That made for a really fucking mutant cat, so he threw it away.

He had one client that afternoon, wanting a touch-up on a faded armband half an hour before Jeff and Carly came in to take the far more lucrative evening hours. Pete finished up while Jeff got his gear laid out, then pocketed his tip and walked out into the evening, leaning back against the shop window while he lit his after-work cigarette.

The lights were still on in the practice space at the end of the block. He stood there as long as it took to finish the cigarette, watching the flickering shadows inside that were all he could see of Bill's band at work. Then he flicked the filter into the gutter and walked down the street in the other direction to the liquor store.

He bought a six-pack of cheap beer and borrowed the clerk's pen long enough to scribble a note on his receipt. _For the kitten,_ he wrote, accompanying it with a re-creation of his mutant cat. He gave it a v-neck this time, too, just in case there were any questions.

He set the note and the beer on the steps outside the door to the practice space, hit the buzzer, and walked away. He didn't want to be around when the kid found it. It was just a stupid joke.

**

Friday was sunny again, but Bill came marching into the store at 3:15 with his guitar and a Burger King bag.

"I'm seventeen," he said, putting the bag on the desk. "And Adam's only fourteen. So you really shouldn't buy us beer."

"Did you drink it?"

"Of course we did. I just thought you deserved to know."

"Trust me, kitten, I can tell you aren't twenty-one. And I don't remember buying beer _for_ anybody. I'm just kind of absent-minded and sometimes I leave six-packs sitting around. You were just lucky that you found it."

"Sometimes you just ring the buzzer, too?"

"It was sitting there, begging for it."

"Ha." Bill took his burger and retreated to his seat by the door. "Don't call me kitten."

Pete smiled and took a big handful of fries.

**

Another week went by, establishing that they really did have a little routine. Bill brought coffee and muffins, then sandwiches again. Pete left beer outside the practice space again, and this time lingered at the corner long enough to see Bill come downstairs and claim it with a crooked, goofy little smile. He tucked the note-- _catnip?_ \--in his pocket and hurried back inside, letting the door slam closed behind him, and Pete walked back to his El stop grinning to himself.

"You haven't asked about the band," Bill said the next week, rocking back and forth on his heels while Pete tore into the gyro he'd provided.

Pete glanced up at him and returned his attention to the food. "I haven't?"

"No."

"Huh."

"Don't you want to know?" The kid was a master of petulant exasperation, tossing his hair out of his eyes and putting his hands on his hips. "I mean, you're supplying us with beer. You're contributing to our delinquency. You should at least know our _name_."

"Okay. What's your name?"

"The Academy."

Pete nodded and swallowed. "That's not bad. Did you come up with it?"

"Team effort."

"What's your style?"

"Pop-rock-alternative with a post-emo spin," Bill said, without a hint of a smile, and Pete wondered if it was possible that this kid made it through entire days without getting the crap beaten out of him.

"That's great."

"You should come hear us sometime."

"Should I?"

"Yes." His hands were still planted on his hips, his chin thrust forward aggressively. He was so fucking cute Pete couldn't stand it. This kid. "We're playing a show in Barrington Friday night, and you should come."

"Are you going to make it worth my while?"

That threw him, finally; his mouth fell open a little, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Pete let his eyes linger there deliberately for a moment, then met Bill's eyes again with a deprecating smile. "I mean buying me dinner. Relax. I'm not going to go after your virtue."

Bill looked away and tucked his hair back behind his ears, cheeks flushing red. "You can g-go in on the band pizza, if you want."

"I think I should get my own pizza."

Bill glanced at him, face still bright red but eyes sharp. "So you'll be there?"

"With bells on, kitten. Just give me the time and place."

**

The Academy was playing a tiny, truly shitty venue as opener for the opener for a C-list indie band. It was, to say the least, not a prestigious gig. But they were professional about it, which Pete approved of. Not that his approval meant anything, but still, it was good to know he wasn't going to have to chew the kid out or smack him around a little.

All five members of the band were, indeed, wearing bright yellow underage wristbands as they set up, hissing instructions and flipping each other off. Pete grinned and went straight back to the bar to order a shot and a beer and to set up a tab for the rest of the night. If they had a good set, he'd buy Bill a round, too. Not being able to drink at your own show was bullshit.

Bill onstage was not a kitten at all. He wasn't a rock star, either, but when the lights went down he definitely shed the awkward, gangly teenager skin. Pete sipped his beer and listened, tapping his free hand against the bar. They weren't great, but they were good. And they had spark. Aggression. _Want_.

They only played four songs, and a glance around the crowd showed that only about half the crowd was into it. That didn't bother Pete. It was a well-known fact that half of all people were complete fucking morons who didn't know good from a hole in the ground.

"Thank you very much," Bill chirped into the mic while the others turned to break their gear down. "I'm William Beckett and we're The Academy."

His eyes darted to the back of the room, and Pete could tell the moment they found him against the bar lights. Bill smiled wider and waved, a twitch of his hand beside his hip. Pete smiled back and raised his glass, something in the back of his head telling him that despite really, truly not going looking this time, he'd found trouble.

He didn’t stick around for the pizza. It was only right to give the kid a chance to stop digging.

**

Bill came into the shop on Monday afternoon, which was not at all part of their routine. He placed a king-sized Snickers bar on the desk and looked at Pete intently. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"You didn’t stay. What did you think? Did you hate it?"

Pete peeled the wrapper back slowly and took a bite, chewing thoroughly and swallowing before he answered. It really looked like Bill might come over the desk at him. "You’ve got good presence. The band has a lot of potential."

"So the presence, that’s me personally?"

"Yeah." Pete took another bite and looked him right in the eye, licking the chocolate off his lips when he swallowed. "You, personally. A little rock-star kitten."

Bill’s mouth twitched, threatening to smile. "Don’t call me that."

"Or what?"

"Kittens have claws, you know."

Pete laughed and set the rest of the candy bar down, then rested his elbows on the desk. "If I didn’t know better I would think you were flirting with me, Beckett."

The kid was pretty good at controlling his face, but he couldn’t do a thing about his eyes. They darted left and right, anywhere but Pete’s face. "Maybe I am."

"I’m older than you, you know."

Now he met Pete’s eyes, sharp and stubborn, and Pete could feel himself tipping back and forth between good idea and bad idea. As if there was ever much of a doubt.

"I don’t care," Bill said. "I thought I’d made that pretty clear, but then you didn’t _stay_ , so what am I supposed to think, what am I supposed to _do_ with you, you’re kind of a tease, you know, and--"

Pete leaned across the desk and kissed him, nice and slow. Bill’s mouth opened right away, letting him lick inside to taste chocolate and root beer.

"We have another show on Friday," Bill said breathlessly when Pete pulled back again. "You should be there."

**

Pete brought booze backstage for the band after their set. Two bottles of Jack for five teenagers and himself. Genius.

"Your creepy friend is awesome, Bill," the rhythm guitarist--Mike--the one with the practice-space key--said, pouring a heavy shot into a really questionable Styrofoam cup. "Thanks for being such a pretty little girl."

"Shut up." Bill snatched the cup from him and downed half of it. No flinching, no whiskey face; Pete had to be a little impressed with the kid. "He’s not creepy."

Mike shrugged and poured another cup before moving over to sit on one of the amp cases. "You’re the tattoo guy, right?"

"That’s me." Pete took a sip from the second bottle, rolling his fingers slowly against the neck. He could tell when Bill’s eyes flicked right to the movement, like it was a lot more suggestive than it actually was. Poor little kitten had no idea he was predictable. "Pete."

"Thanks for all the beer."

"No problem."

"I hope Bilvy’s paying you for it." There was a little bit of an edge to his voice, just enough to make Pete raise an eyebrow and Bill’s face go deep red.

"Fuck you, Carden," he said, throwing his empty cup to the floor. "God. Just shut the fuck up for once."

"Whatever." Mike rolled his eyes and stood up, shooting Pete a cold look before sauntering out of the room.

Interesting, Pete thought, taking another sip. Didn’t make a goddamn bit of sense, but interesting.

Bill had his arms wrapped around himself and was staring down at the floor with a furious red face. Poor little kitten. Pete chased the thought with another swallow of Jack. Kitten needed some cheering up.

"Here," he said, holding out the bottle. Bill looked up, eyes wide and startled, and brushed his hair out of his face.

"What?"

"Drink up. I brought it for you, you know. And I had a couple drinks while you guys were playing."

Bill licked his lips and took the bottle, balancing it awkwardly with one hand on the neck and the other on the base as he took a long swallow. Pete smiled and leaned back against the wall, watching him.

"You sounded good."

"Thanks." Bill took another drink, closing his eyes and shuddering a little as the kick started. "It was okay."

"Who writes your lyrics?"

Bill shot him a stern look and handed the bottle back over, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "I do."

"Yeah? I should’ve guessed."

Bill made a face and slouched back against the wall. "Mike helps. A little. We co-write, but he’s more about the...the music part."

"Makes sense." Pete took another drink and swirled the liquid in the bottle. They were making a pretty good dent in it. "You want any more?"

"Yes," Bill said decidedly, and Pete laughed as he handed it over.

"Gonna be drunk off your ass, kitten."

"Don’t _call_ me that." Bill took a drink, groaned a little, and smacked Pete on the arm. "I’m not."

"You’re fuckin’ adorable when you get mad about it, though." Pete pushed off the wall and nodded at the door. "C’mon."

"Where?"

"I’ve gotta go find a cab."

"What?" Bill missed a step, clutching the bottle to his chest. "You’re leaving?"

"I’m taking you with me. Come on."

"To your house?"

"Outside, anyway. Come _on_ , Beckett."

Bill huffed and put the bottle down as they passed the table on their way to the door. Pete settled his hand on the small of Bill’s back, guiding him down the short hallway to the alley exit. The air outside was cold and sharp, the kind that didn’t leave any option except tilting your head back and breathing deep.

Bill missed another step, stumbling forward and nearly bumping against the wall. "O-oh."

"Careful." Pete hooked his arm with the kid’s and pulled him back to his side. "Don’t want to fall and break something out here."

Bill swayed, leaning into him, somehow managing to look up at him through his fucking stupid long lashes even though he was _taller_ than Pete, what the hell was that. "Thanks," he said, his voice breathless and his skinny body hot against Pete’s. "I mean, thanks for coming, not just--"

"You’re welcome. It was a good show."

Bill smiled, actually _beamed_ , and Pete forced himself to hold still and wait while the kid made up his mind. Neither encourage him or discourage, just wait him out, let it be totally up to him, what he wanted or--

Bill’s mouth came down over his, hot and clumsy and tasting like Jack and a little bit of blood. It was a combination Pete was familiar with, one that in his brain was all mixed up with adrenaline and crazy stupid things, and he couldn’t help but groan and kiss the kid back, pushing him up against the alley wall.

From Pete’s own only-a-little-hazy memories of teenage hookups of dubious good taste, it should’ve been kissing and grinding up against the wall, maybe getting his hand down the kid’s pants if Bill lasted long enough. It was definitely headed in that direction, very nicely, when all of a sudden Bill pulled back a little and dropped to his knees, grunting at the impact. "Ow."

Pete blinked down at him, bracing his hands on the wall on either side of where Bill had been. "What are you doing?"

"Shh," Bill scolded, looking up at him through his hair and reaching to undo Pete's jeans. "I'm concentrating."

Pete never was totally sure if Bill meant that as a euphemism or not, but if he did, he was a really good concentrator, hot and sweet and really _focused_ , like Pete's mumbled curses and encouragement were a secret code and he was going to figure it out with his mouth. Pete gave him a fair warning when he was about to come, but the kid didn't even pause, just doubled his efforts and then fucking swallowed, sitting back on his heels and blinking mildly while Pete caught his breath.

"You're good at that," he said finally, offering Bill his hand. Bill let him haul him to his feet, still blinking and brushing his hair back off his face.

"I'm multi-talented," he said with exaggerated dignity.

"You certainly are." Pete slid his hand up Bill's arm and then down his chest, angling down toward his dick, but Bill shied aside.

"I should go help pack up."

"You don't want me to jerk you off?"

Bill gave him a blank stare that somehow carried a lot of meaning, most of it along the lines of _you dumb fuck_ , and Pete belatedly realized that the moment for that offer had passed.

"Oh." Bill didn't seem particularly embarrassed, but something in Pete wanted to reassure him anyway. "It's cool. Next time, huh? You go first."

Bill smiled, just a twitch of his mouth. "Sure. I should go pack up. Have a safe trip home." And he ran back up the alley and through the door before Pete could say a thing.

**

Pete really didn't expect to see Bill come into the shop again. But Wednesday afternoon there he was, off the 3:15 bus as usual, balancing two Starbucks cups, a bag of doughnuts, and his guitar like there was no reason in the world he wouldn't be.

Pete relieved him of coffee and doughnuts and dragged a chair over so they could both sit at the desk. "How's it going?"

"It's going." Bill tossed his head, flicking his hair out of his eyes, and dug into his doughnut. "We're writing a new song."

"You and Mike?"

"No. Me and Morrissey." He snorted and sipped his coffee. "Of course me and Mike."

"No need to get snippy." Pete hid a smile behind his cup. Thank God the kid was being snippy. Things weren't fucked up, then. "What's this one about?"

"The pain and misery of love."

Pete squinted at him. "You're seventeen?"

"Yes."

"You don't know shit about the pain and misery of love."

Bill sat up straighter and clutched his cup in both hands. "I do all right."

"Yeah, okay." Suddenly the elephant in the room was a whole lot bigger and starting to turn shades of neon. Pete looked away. "Whatever you say, kitten."

"Don't..." Bill caught himself and exhaled sharply. "You do that on purpose."

"Of course I do."

"Why?"

"Because it gets you going."

"And what do you get out of getting me going, exactly?"

It might've been a rhetorical question, it might've been honest, but Pete couldn't not take it seriously. He looked at Bill again, meeting his eyes over the coffee cups. "I'm pretty sure I get _you_ , don't I?"

Bill's eyes narrowed, then widened, and his cheeks flushed red. He didn't flinch, though. "We don't have practice today."

"I thought you were writing."

"Yes. We're writing, because AJ and Adam both have exams and we can't practice. The practice space is empty."

"You don't have the key."

Bill bit his lower lip and reached into his pocket, placing a key down flat on the desk. "I do too."

"I'm at work."

Bill's face turned even more red, and he ducked his chin a little before catching himself and glaring fiercely. "You're trying to get me going, aren't you?"

"I am." Pete scribbled a message on the notepad, promising to be back by 5. "Tape this to the door, would you? I've got to grab my stuff from the back."

"Stuff? What stuff? You don't need stuff."

Pete just smiled and walked to the back. Oh, kitten. Knew just enough not to realize that he didn't know everything.

**

The practice space was a small, badly-lit room with something questionable growing in the far corner and exposed wiring. But it had a door that locked and a couch shoved up against one wall, which were really all that Pete had any interest in. He backed Bill over to the couch and pushed him down on his back, straddling his waist and kissing him.

This time Bill was stone sober and he kissed back like the kid Pete knew from other afternoons, like the kid up there on stage under the lights. All bravado and pushback, not giving an inch, demanding all the attention he could get. Nothing pliant, nothing easy.

Pete could remember _being_ that kid, once upon a time. He half wanted to chase William until he fell, shake him until he snapped, knock all of that out of him and take it away. The other half wanted to wrap around him so the world couldn't touch any of that at all, so it could burn and glow and turn into something...

"Fuck," Bill panted, arching up under him, his wrists twisting under Pete's hands. Pete didn't remember pinning his wrists at all. "Fuck, why aren't you _doing_ anything? Come on."

"Shh." Pete ducked his head, turning his mouth to Bill's neck. He kissed, sucked, bit, leaving a trail of red skin and drawing sharp bitten-off gasps from Bill's mouth. Bill's knee came up, bumping Pete's ass and driving him forward until he caught himself braced chest to chest with Bill.

"What do you want?" he asked, his mouth an inch from Bill's own, his eyes staring into Bill's, his brain half-hypnotized by the heat and scent and _tension_ of him.

Bill stared up at him, flushed and sweaty and so fucking young, so fucking _golden_. He licked his lips and nodded a little, not saying a word, and Pete knew what he meant anyway. Because what else, right? What else would the kid want that he could get from chasing the dude at the tattoo shop, blowing him in an alley and then dragging him back here to an empty room in the middle of the day. Who was playing with who all this time, anyway?

"Kitten," Pete muttered, digging in his pocket for the condom and little pack of lube he'd grabbed from his coat in the back of the shop, "you're _all_ claws, aren't you?"

"What?" Bill huffed in frustration, squirming under Pete to undo his jeans and shove them down off his bony hips. "Shut up."

"Nine fucking lives," Pete said, which didn't make any sense, but everything else he ever knew about cats vacated his head while he smeared the lube over his fingers and nudged Bill's thighs apart with his knee.

"I don't know what you--oh!" Pete pushed two fingers into him, without a warning or a pause, and Bill gasped, his head going back. "Jesus Christ."

"Easy." Pete ducked his head, staring down at the lines of Bill's chest through his thin t-shirt. Sweat dripped off his forehead and fell down to dot the fabric. Fuck. "You...you ever done this before?"

"No." Bill's teeth were clenched, his breath coming sharply. "Don't _stop_. Keep going."

Pete did, hoping it wasn't too late to go slow. He could see every breath Bill took hitching in his chest and his shoulders, rocking his body. He could hear them and feel them, loud and hot, laced with helpless little sounds. He shifted up, claiming Bill's mouth and kissing him while he worked him open, thrusting his fingers steadily deeper.

Bill's hips were rocking, thrusting his dick helplessly against the air. Pete laughed a little against his mouth, trying to catch his breath enough to speak. "Touch yourself. Jerk off. Fuck. Do it."

Bill gasped and slid his hand down between them, wrapping it around his dick tightly and jerking fast and desperate. Pete closed his eyes and kissed him again, fucking his mouth with his tongue while he pushed his fingers in harder, deeper, until Bill choked and arched up and came all over himself with a moan. Pete pulled back just long enough to fumble his own jeans open and get his hand inside his boxers before he was kissing Bill again, losing his own breath and noises against Bill.

They lay tangled up on the couch together for what might have been a long time, or might not; Pete couldn't tell. Finally Bill took a deep breath and pushed at Pete's shoulder. "You have to go back to work. I have to go home. Let me up." Pete looked at him for a long moment, fingers tightening on Bill's hips. Bill pushed at him again, rolling his eyes and smiling that crooked little grin. "You have to go back to work."

Pete kissed the mark he'd left on Bill's neck again before he stood up and started fixing his jeans. It was dark enough against Bill's skin that it would last a while.

**

Friday and Wednesday and Friday again, with Bill in the shop every time. Pete sat at the desk, legs wrapped loosely around the bars of his stool, concentrating on the notepad in front of him.

"What are you drawing?" Bill asked, sounding only about half interested, most of his attention on the french fries he'd brought with him.

"It's my symbol." A heart with bat wings, not his own design but his own _meaning_ , and that made it his. "My signature."

Bill boosted himself up in his chair to see the notepad, squinting at it upside-down from his side of the desk. "Interesting."

Pete shrugged and turned the paper to a new angle, beginning to draw it again. Larger this time, delicate lines of shading making it pop in 3-D.

Bill touched the paper lightly, his fingertip smudging the ink. "You should draw that on me."

Pete stopped and looked at him. Bill's eyes were fixed on the page, his mouth curved in a tiny smile.

"It's my signature," Pete said. "It goes on things that belong to me."

Bill's smile grew wider, but not even a little bit sweet. Pete could almost hear him purr.  



End file.
